28. Building the House #2
Elizabeth approached the shelves, trailing her fingers along the spines of ledgers dated back to the previous century.
The weight of history pressed upon her—generations of Darcys recording profits and losses, managing lands and tenants, building the fortune that now rested, improbably, in her unqualified hands.
“I know nothing of estate management,” she admitted, surprising herself with the honesty. “My father’s estate is entailed away, and my mother considered account books beneath her notice.”
“You will learn.” Mrs. Reynolds’s voice held neither judgment nor false encouragement—merely a statement of fact. “Lady Anne knew nothing when she came to Pemberley as a bride. She learned because she wished to be a true partner to Mr. Darcy’s father, not merely an ornament in his house.”
A true partner. The phrase settled beneath Elizabeth’s ribs, both uncomfortable and illuminating. Was this what Darcy sought? Not merely a mother for Thomas, but a companion in all of it: the accounts, the decisions, and the countless small choices that kept a great estate alive?
Or was this merely another calculation, another piece of the elaborate machinery he had constructed to secure her attachment?
She did not know, but she was beginning to suspect she had never known anything about Fitzwilliam Darcy at all.
“You will need to budget the amount to be spent and record it in the ledgers. Each category has its own entries, and you will be in charge of replenishing the budget by allocating the income appropriately.”
“This is quite a responsibility,” Elizabeth murmured, but lest Mrs. Reynolds accuse her of shirking, she quickly added. “I am surely up to the task, as arithmetic was one of my strongest subjects.”
“That is assuring,” Mrs. Reynolds continued, crossing to a cabinet against the far wall. “The iron key with the rose motif unlocks Lady Anne’s jewelry collection, now yours by right of marriage.”
Elizabeth’s fingers fumbled as she found the indicated key. She slipped it into the lock, finding it smooth and well-oiled.
She could not suppress a gasp as the case revealed a queen’s ransom in gems: pearls strung in graduated strands, rubies nestled in gold filigree, sapphires as blue as a January sky, and a diamond necklace that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the stone walls like captured stars.
Elizabeth gazed at the jewels and felt, quite absurdly, the urge to laugh.
Two months prior, she had been Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, her mother counting every shilling, her father barricaded in his library to avoid the spectacle of five dowryless daughters.
Now she stood in a stone vault beneath Pemberley, contemplating a trove that could purchase Longbourn tenfold.
“For the dinner party,” Mrs. Reynolds said, “you will wish to select something appropriate. Nothing too grand for a neighborhood gathering—the pearls, perhaps, or the small sapphire set Lady Anne favored for informal occasions.”
She lifted a delicate necklace from its velvet bed—three sapphires suspended on a gold chain, elegant without ostentation—and held it toward the candlelight. “This was a particular favorite of hers. She wore it to her first dinner party as mistress of Pemberley.”
Elizabeth took the necklace, feeling a crushing weight of undeserved honor. Darcy’s mother had worn this at her first marital dinner, and now, she, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy, was being invited to…
“Of course, if it doesn’t suit you,” Mrs. Reynolds continued. “You have the freedom to choose any other piece. Perhaps the emerald might complement the green silk or…”
“These suit me very well. I should be honored to wear it,” Elizabeth said, and found that she meant it.
Mrs. Reynolds’s expression softened—the first unguarded response Elizabeth had seen from her since the morning began.
“Lady Anne would have been pleased to know it was being worn again. She believed jewels ought to be used, not hoarded. ‘What is the purpose of beauty,’ she used to say, ‘if it is locked away where no one can see it?’”
Elizabeth thought of Darcy, locked away in his own reserve, his capacity for love hidden behind walls of disappointment and duty. She thought of herself, her wit deployed as armor rather than ornament, her cleverness a fortress against the hopes she refused to acknowledge.
Perhaps they were not so different, she and her husband. They had both spent too long locked away, where no one could see them.
“The dinner party,” she said, shaking off the thought. “When should it be held?”
“Saturday, a week from next, would be appropriate, ma’am. Your husband should have returned by then. Sufficient time for invitations to be delivered and accepted, and for Cook to plan the menu. I will draft the invitation list for your approval, unless you wish to make changes.”
“The list you described will do admirably.” Elizabeth closed the jewel case, leaving the sapphire necklace atop the velvet. “I shall trust your judgment on the menu as well, though I should like to review it before it is finalized.”
“Assuredly, ma’am.” Mrs. Reynolds gathered the necklace and returned it to its case with practiced care. “There is one other matter—the household accounts for the month require your signature. Mr. Darcy ordinarily reviews them, but in his absence…”
“I will review them.” Elizabeth heard the steel in her own voice and did not soften it. “Show me what requires signing.”
They spent the next hour in the strongroom, Mrs. Reynolds explaining accounts and expenditures while Elizabeth listened, questioned, and—where she felt confident—approved.
The sums were staggering by Longbourn’s standards, but Mrs. Reynolds presented them with the calm authority of a woman who had managed such figures for decades, and Elizabeth found herself absorbing more than she had expected.
The Pemberley farms had produced a surplus of grain the previous harvest, now being sold at advantageous prices.
The home farm required new fencing for the sheep pastures.
The tenant at Derby Grange had requested permission to expand his dairy operation, a proposal that would require capital investment but promised increased returns within two years.
The household itself consumed a small fortune in candles, coal, and provisions, but the expenditures were reasonable for an estate of this size, and the servants’ wages were generous without being extravagant.
By the time they emerged from the strongroom, Elizabeth’s head was awash with figures, but for the first time since Darcy’s departure, she felt something other than helplessness.
She had signed documents, approved expenditures, and chosen jewels for a dinner party she would host in her own right, as mistress of Pemberley.
Clarice had been right: a wise woman built her house, one decision at a time, until the edifice and its architect became indistinguishable.
Or perhaps she was simply too stubborn to let it fall. Had Darcy wagered on her obstinacy? He was not a man given to rashness, and she could find no explanation for his trust but the least sentimental one.
He would keep her too occupied to miss what he could not provide. At least she would not go to her grave without the kiss of a husband replacing that earlier, unearned one. For he had kissed her, and in so doing, touched her heart, and for that, she could at least be grateful.